It's a One-Way Ticket to Mimi's House of Pain

Aug 7, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Today I wish to report that I have a personal trainer. Yes, I do. I'll tell anybody who asks all about David and his proficiency as a personal trainer. David is wonderful. He takes my mournfully out-of-shape physique and whips it into shape. He listens politely to my painfully sad tales of woe about my bum knee, my achy back and makes me work out anyway. The benefits of having a personal trainer are limitless. In fact, I've made it my life's purpose to stay as far away as humanly possible from my personal trainer.

Now I should explain (and I know you will find this shocking) I am no spring chicken. Nope, I am a certified, and possibly certifiable, grandmother (a.k.a. "Mimi") with two little granddaughters and a grandson on the way. So in my opinion, personal trainers should handle me gently. With respect. Reverence, perhaps. Ok, perhaps not.

Let me tell you how it is when I meet with David. He feigns happiness to see me. He professes he's glad I'm back at the gym. And then he proceeds to kill me.

Look, I'll be the first to admit I am no accomplished athlete. Sure, back in school I could kick butt in track and field. But I had my weaknesses. Remember the climbing rope torture device that was part of P.E. class? Oh, mama!! How embarrassing was that? I'd approach the thick, braided cable with my heart stuck in my throat. Because this was going to be beyond bad. Way beyond. I'd drag myself onto the rope where I'd hang swinging in sad, slow circles, my feet planted on the knot, wondering how the heck I was going to get out of this one. Maybe somebody would pull the fire alarm. Hopefully the Russians would attack. ANYTHING to get me off this thing.

As I hung there willing my feet to do something besides twist themselves ever more tightly into the knot, my toes cramping inside my sneakers, I cursed my eternal weak spot. My arms. There was no way those weaklings would pull me to the top. Sure, many of my classmates - even GIRLS, for the love of God - could shimmy up the rope, tap the ceiling smartly and shimmy back down. Not me. Nope - those sad, slow circles. That's where I stayed.And I swear those dang ropes were a source of humiliation forever. From kindergarten until I was the approximate age of dirt, it seemed there was one of those blasted ropes waiting to be climbed. Seriously. Ok, maybe it just felt that way.

So I know my limitations. But David doesn't. No-siree-bob! After my "cardio," which consists of lacing up my tennis shoes, David sends me to the stationary bike. "Go ahead and do 15 minutes of warm-up," he instructs. What? What do you mean "15 minutes?" If I could do 15 minutes, would I need to be here? This is what I say in my head. To David I smile and say, "Sure! No problem!" I just hope he can't hear me grinding my teeth.

After I'm "warmed up," i.e. exhausted to the point that a week in a lounge chair on a beach in Barbados wouldn't revive me, he escorts me to the machines. Have I mentioned torture? Yes, friends, this is legalized cruelty to old people.

David sits me on a seat the approximate width of a 3-month old baby's hand. Next he hauls down a couple of bars that he has me grip. With David helping me hold the bars, I've assumed a dangerously false sense of security. Then he lets go. And instructs me to lower and raise those bars above my head. Holy cow."Why don't we just go to the parking lot and I'll bench press my car," I say. "That can be arranged," he replies

But let's be honest here; after several months' absence, it's time for me to go back to the gym. Let David drag out the old whips and chains. … Ahem. Whips and chains?

Ok, I suppose I COULD use a little toning (black leather boots) in a few spots (blindfold). My personal trainer IS, after all, a trained professional (handcuffs) and although I don't need the bulging bicep guns (chain mail) that some of those hulky bodybuilders have (Ravish-Me-Red lipstick), a firm physique WOULD allow me to get on the floor (spiked arm bands) and play with my grandchildren because life is just WAY too short (wrist restraints), isn't it? Nope! Never let it be said I was afraid to just jump right in there and give it a whirl (leather ceiling harness).

Well! I may be a grandmother, but who knows? This Mimi's House of Pain thing might be…fun? I'm just saying.

Column: A Mother by any other Name

Apr 29, 2009 By Gale Hammond

"Don't put that into your mouth; it'll make you sick." "Wash your hands after using the restroom." "Don't let the dog lick your face; he licks his bottom with that tongue." "Are you wearing clean underwear? What if you get into an accident and somebody sees it?" "I don't care who made this mess; I want it cleaned up right now!"

If cleanliness is next to godliness, then it's a pretty good bet that moms are destined to sit at the right hand of The Man Upstairs. We're remembering mom for many different reasons as we approach Mothers Day but one of her major mainstays in raising her brood was on keeping it clean.

So mothers everywhere must be fairly panting with admiration for University of Arizona professor of environmental microbiology, Dr. Chuck Gerba. "Dr. Germ," as the good doctor is nicknamed, has performed studies of microbes found on everything from the bottom of a purse to public restrooms to your kitchen sponge. Nothing has escaped Dr. Germ's trained eye of all things geared to make us sick.

Kinda like your mom. And if you lay claim to never hearing those Mom-isms cited above, I'm here to tell you that you were probably raised by wolves. Because anybody who's lived with a mother knows that the main manifesto of all things "mom" is that germs are out to get us.

As it turns out, Dr. Germ thinks so too. Back when he was a young pup, one of Gerba's professors introduced to the future germologist the idea of microbe transmission via the simple flushing of a bathroom toilet. Thus was born the theory of "toilet splatter," and this, people, is something even my own mother never thought of.

That's right, by merely depressing the handle of your commode, the contents contained inside the bowl launch bacteria into the air where it arcs and rains down all over the place. Items three feet away may be polluted, including your toothbrush or hairbrush. Sorry about this venture into "too much information," breakfast eaters, but may I please go on record here as saying this is just so eewwww …

Now if all this has completely grossed you out, take heart. Because your toilet isn't so unclean after all. Yep! Turns out Dr. Gerba's studies show that toilets are actually cleaner than restroom faucets, kitchen sinks and (yikes) your washing machine.

That's right, Dr. Germ runs his empty washing machine with bleach after washing his clothes. That's because these days more people are using cold water and manufacturers are making machines with shorter wash cycles. The result? According to Dr. Gerba the order in which you launder your clothes makes all the difference. In other words, wash your undies before your hankies and you're pretty much blowing your nose into whatever contents may have washed out of your dainties. Let's hear it people: ICK!

If shoes and purses are your thing, it turns out some pretty nasty organisms make them their thing, too. According to Dr. Germ, 93 percent of shoes worn for 90 days have E. coli on the soles. And purses? One woman's large handbag contained bacteria numbering at about half a million. And, I know, you don't normally go around licking the bottom of your shoes or handbag, but still.

Are you wondering how Dr. Germ gathers his "material?" Armed with a hand-held germ meter, he walks door-to-door asking folks to hand over their kitchen sponges and other likely culprits. Gerba finds women are usually cooperative. Guys on the other hand? Not so much. Gerba says guys that answer the door will offer something like, "What're you, some kind of pervert?" To which he'll answer, "No, I'm a scientist."

That's why it was so shocking recently when another health expert, Jane E. Brody, "The New York Times" personal health columnist, wrote that various continuing studies are showing evidence that ingesting a little dirt can actually be good for you. Yes, that theory is vile heresy to Mom but the so-called "hygiene hypothesis" suggests that bacteria, viruses and particularly worms that enter the body via the intake of "dirt" are apt to help us develop a good immune system. Hear that, Mom?

Now if I had to choose sides on the "germs" issue, I'd probably be in the camp of Ms. Brody and her researches. It just seems so much simpler somehow. This is why it's a good thing that my own mother, a fan of clean if there ever was one, isn't alive today to have to digest such conflicting information. I knew my mom pretty well, and if there is a probable stand-in for my mom and her philosophy on all things clean, I know who it would be.

And his name is Dr. Germ.

Warning! Warning! Grandparents on duty

Apr 14, 2009 By Gale Hammond

There is something I've been meaning to tell you. We're having a baby. Well, not "we" exactly, as in Mr. H. and I. Rather, we are getting a brand new granddaughter. Not that there was anything wrong with the old one, mind you, but a new baby sister was about to arrive. This meant while Daughter No. 1 and her hubby were at the hospital "picking out" new baby Emily, someone needed to watch "old" baby Gracie, age 21 months. So Mr. H. and I headed for Southern California. Yep: It was going to be Grandparents on duty.

Now this assignment should have been a snap because Gracie and I are pretty tight. We go back a long way. I spent the better part of Gracie's first year taking care of her in Long Beach while her parents worked full time. I learned about all the latest baby accessories while discovering modern baby gear involves massive numbers of batteries, music and moving parts. It made me wonder how my parents managed to bring up my brother and me without anything fancier than an old pot and a wooden spoon to bang it with. That was big-time fun back in the day.

But I digress. Nearly two years ago, when Gracie was born, I diligently re-learned all there was to know about new babies. I recognized when a cry meant "I'm hungry/wet/cold/hot" or simply "I'm a baby and I insist on being treated like a princess." I rediscovered the joyful feeling in your heart when a 6-month-old reaches out her chubby little arms for a hug. And I understood there wasn't too much on earth that I enjoyed as much as watching little Gracie grow.

So there we were, back again after all these months, waiting for the arrival of a second little miracle. When Emily's arrival was imminent, we set up shop again, Gracie, her grampy and I. With Mommy and Daddy entrenched in the hospital, we were on our own. But you would think by now I'd have had the whole thing down cold. Well. You would have thought.

And things did start off just fine. At naptime we read a book, enjoyed some milk and negotiated a diaper change. Being a warm spring day in Southern California, I left Gracie in her diaper and a light shirt; I deposited her in her crib with a few of her books and gave her a hug. This was so easy. "Night-night," Gracie called as I exited her room. "Love you …" she called. "How cute is that?" I asked the universe in general, closing her door softly.

So I was taken off guard when I peeked at the baby monitor shortly thereafter and saw my granddaughter perusing her books beside a puffy white object in her crib. Well. That certainly hadn't been there when I left her room. I grew more puzzled as I peered at the small screen because now Gracie was putting the mystery object on her head. Hmmm … Gracie was looking at books with … oh, dear Lord … she was looking at books with her diaper on her head. Yes, the diaper was definitely missing from, well … where a diaper normally belongs. Whew. Disaster was averted with a swift trip to securely reapply the diaper to the proper location.

Finally word came from the hospital that Emily had arrived and was ready for a visit from her big sister. Since meeting a brand-new baby sister is a momentous occasion, I was on a mission to dress Gracie perfectly including combing her hair into a new big-sister "do." I wanted this vision of Gracie loveliness to assure her parents that Gracie was in competent hands during their stay at the hospital. I mean, nobody needed to know about the unfortunate diaper-on-the-head incident, right? Right!

Scurrying out the door, I glanced down at Gracie's previously perfect wispy blonde curls. Oh-oh. Clutching the hairbrush in her chubby little fist, she now bore a regrettable resemblance to Donald Trump. Doing my best to smooth out her fresh "comb-over" we hustled on out to the car.

Arriving at the hospital we exited the car excitedly. Gracie reached back to grab a red object from the floor of the vehicle and we were off. Rounding the corner to the elevator I glanced down at my granddaughter for a last inspection before she met her new baby sister. And OK, it might be April, but Gracie had concluded the proper head attire for this important occasion was, well … her Santa Claus hat.

So on that lovely spring afternoon Gracie arrived at the hospital to meet her new sister Emily while wearing a perky red Santa hat. And, in the end, it was just fine. Because everybody knows that baby sisters, like Christmas, don't come everyday.

The Horrors of Home Renovation

(Original publication date:) Tuesday, November 01, 2005

My fireplace is laying all over the back deck.

No, our home did not sustain a massive earthquake with our address at its epicenter. What we are suffering is the dreaded “Home Renovation.”

Twenty-two years in the same house bring some interesting challenges. The structure is showing its years and, like me, it is not aging gracefully. Built in 1975, our home embraces many (formerly) charming features we see in other Morgan Hill homes of the 70s such as the brownish fake rock adorning fireplaces and random exterior wall surfaces. As for the “avocado green” and “harvest gold” decorators of that era lavished all over the place…well, let’s just not go there.

In the last couple of years my adrenaline level has shot up as I noticed more and more homes in Morgan Hill undergoing some pretty heavy-duty transformations. Thanks to low interest rates and high homeowner equity, remodeling projects have become all the rage. In our neighborhood, marvelous exterior makeovers are popping up, sleek new windows gaze elegantly street ward, and even soaring add-on porticos are possible, bringing stylish curb appeal to older homes.

When I bring up the subject of “re-doing” a portion of our house, my husband typically staggers about in full Fred-Sanford-heart-attack mode, but I learned that if I leave him alone he eventually settles down and listens to reason. While a couple of rooms at our house are on their second or third incarnation, the old family room fireplace looked just a tad bit tired, and no amount of painting, re-flooring or new throw pillows was going to rectify the situation.

Hence, we jumped into the remodeling fray, and the brownish fake rock fireplace was my latest mission. Cleverly, I reminded my husband that he’d need to purchase at least a couple of absolutely indispensable new tools vital to this project to add to his growing collection in the garage. Shrewdly, I explained how I would be “happy” to help him, such as in laying out the new (and also fake) river rock fireplace design - hoping he’d forgotten about the joint wallpapering project several years ago that required serious post-papering marriage counseling. And with all the craftiness I could muster, I reminded him of the appreciation factor - how this one tiny little project will elevate our home’s value to stellar new heights.

Having finally won this particular skirmish, I was excited to see all the lovely rocks - boxes and boxes of rocks - delivered to our house. Confident that the project would soon be underway, I took a short trip to visit family and friends and returned to…nuclear winter.

Deciding to “surprise” me while I was away, my husband took sledge hammer in hand and battered and hacked away many pounds of 1970’s era rock. The result was a thick layer of powdery gray mortar dust that settled far and wide throughout the entire house.“You’ll probably want to clean that up pretty soon,” he announced brightly as I stood there, mouth agape, suitcases suspended lifelessly in each hand.

Needless to say, that clean-up project was a full three days long.Which brings me back to our fireplace and what it is doing out on the deck. Recalling my helpful offer of a few weeks ago, my husband built a tidy 12x7-foot frame in exact replica of the fireplace. He deposited said 12x7-foot frame on the rear deck - surrounded by boxes and boxes of fake river rock, and he is letting me have at it.

I don’t know, but do you think there may be a bit of an ulterior motive here?

Gale Hammond is a 22-year resident of Morgan Hill and a new columnist at the Morgan Hill Times. Reach her at galehammond@aol.com.

Is My Cat Deductible?

Today we have urgent breaking news: your taxes are due. Yes, friends, April 15 is right around the corner and if that doesn’t scare your socks off, I suggest it’s time to up your medication.

At this very moment you are undoubtedly deep in the midst of filling out those annoying tax returns, scratching your head and pondering ways to count “Kitty” as a legitimate tax deduction.

No, there is nothing existing in today’s government that is quite as challenging as the Tax Code. The Tax Code is one ginormous tome, a publication that nobody – least of all the current heads of the Treasury and other budget-focused departments – seems to know diddly-squat about. I mean, if correctly paying the total amount of taxes a person owes was a requirement to being a high-powered appointee in government, Washington D.C. would be a ghost town. But still.

This ambiguity of the Tax Code does not excuse the average tax payer – that would be you and me – from knowing all the various and intricate “ins and outs” of the Tax Code and what is currently allowed in terms of tax-deductible expenditures as in, “No, your dental adhesive is not deductible.”

Take your aforementioned cat and her deductibility-worthiness when it comes to preparing your tax return. Yes, I realize you’ve spent more on Kitty and her bi-weekly dialysis than on the college tuition of all your children combined. Kitty still does not qualify for a medical deduction on this year’s tax return. And, I know, that is so not fair.

However, perhaps there is a way around the “deduction-ality” of your cat’s health care. Or perhaps your cat doesn’t even require health care. Suppose you keep your cat around because coming home from a hard day at the office and being greeted by your standoffish cat is, well…a stress reliever of sorts. Isn’t that a good thing?

Of course it is! A happy, unstressed worker is a healthy worker. And a healthy worker, well…works! Therefore, in order to perform your job in an efficient manner and earn a good salary so you can PAY ALL THOSE TAXES, you might argue that your cat is an integral part of the compulsory accoutrements in the performance of your daily job requirements. (Did you understand that? I’m fairly certain I didn’t.) So your cat is – Bingo! Tax deductible! Right? RIGHT??

Well, you would think. Personally, I would argue that this sort of deduction ought to fly in any IRS tax audit, but I am sad to tell you that not all CPAs or IRS agents would agree. That’s right, some of those tax folks can be downright picky and ill humored when it comes to allowable expenses.

Take, for example, another mandatory item for achieving stellar work performance: shoes. Suppose you are a professional woman and you want to propel your career ride upward on the fast track. To fracture that glass ceiling, you are in need of a substantially sharp stiletto such as the 4” covered heel found on a pair of red Manolo Blahnik Patent Strappy Sandals (price: $745), freshly imported from Italy. Well. What IRS agent would be so callous as to suggest that the aforementioned sandals are not fully tax deductible?

Yes, but it happens, taxpayers! Tragically, not even the French have figured out a method of manufacturing a tax-deductible pair of shoes. Need a snappy pair of red-soled Louboutin Mary Jane platforms ($965) to impress your boss and soar ahead of the corporate melee? Sorry, ladies, even those greedy AIG executives haven’t figured out a way to deduct these Parisian beauties. Bonuses? Maybe. Stilettos? Not a chance.


Even playful Jimmy Choo shoes won’t cut it in the tax deduction department. Not that you can’t try. I mean, somewhere out there exists an IRS auditor sympathetic to the needs of sharp career-minded girls who know that all it takes to jump ahead in the world of movers and shakers is a swingin’ little pair of Jimmy Choo Peep-Toe Platform Pumps ($750) matched up with the large Jimmy Choo Leopard Zip Hobo bag ($3,150). Yes, in these pressing economic times, you have to look under every rock to unearth those valuable tax deductions – assuming you have, you know, a job and all.


So whether it’s cute shoes or your snooty kitty, as an alert and informed journalist, I’m telling you those tax deductions are out there, people! And if you claim these worthy deductions on your tax return and the IRS starts getting all, like, fanatical about it, you just tell them to come and see me. That’s right. I’ll be happy to give them a piece of my mind. Just tell them to call and ask for me: Barbara Walters. That’s right. Ask for Babs. Yep. That’s the old tax-deduction ticket.

Surviving the recession: A report from the front lines

Mar 18, 2009 By Gale Hammond


Today some urgent news: we are in a recession! Yes, I know this is probably not a shock to you, but since this financial mess isn't going to be resolved within the next, say … day or two, it is time to have a heart-to-heart discussion about your marriage.

Yes, this icky (a highly technical financial term) economy and marriage go together like Mother Teresa and crack cocaine. They don't. Go together. At all.

Ladies, if you're sporting a rock the size of a grapefruit on your left hand's fourth finger and your hubby isn't happy unless you're shopping up a storm, good for you. This column is not for you. And guys: does your wife refuse to spend a penny on herself? Does she cut her own hair? Do her own nails? Wearing shoes she bought in 1982? Then check her driver's license, pal, because you've married an alien, and I don't mean an alien originating anywhere on Planet Earth.

But if you're suddenly feeling that your marriage wasn't exactly made in heaven and financial woes are causing a few new rifts in your matrimonial world, you are not alone. Couples usually begin their lives together with a few opposing opinions on the best way to handle a dollar. Save it? Invest it? Spend it? The old "opposites attract" rule is never more apparent than it is in today's economy, and what may have been endearing behavior a year ago is suddenly not so much. Even if you have cash out the wazoo, a poopy (another highly technical financial term) economy can cause even the happiest marriage to wobble a bit.

As you might imagine, my spouse and I are not immune to the challenges of the economy. And of course we have a lot of company. I mean, when your 401(k)'s bottom line is best described as "down the crapper," it causes a few anxious moments in most marriages. So a decision is made to tighten up the purse strings.Now this means different things to different people. To me, this might mean reducing the number of lattes I purchase in a week from seven to, well … five perhaps. Now that's what I call belt tightening! But my spouse, who I'll refer to here simply as "Mr. H.," sees things a little differently:

Me: "What's the good of having saved money all our lives if we're not going to spend it? My perfect plan is to die with zero cash in the bank, credit cards charged to the max and all of my payments are due.
"Mr. H: "Sure, and with my luck I'll still be alive."

Well. You see what I'm up against here, people. Of course he may be a little apprehensive because when we got married 34 years ago, he had a savings account and I, well … didn't. In fact, you might go so far as to say that he married the national debt because I was a working girl and, you know, we working girls had to look cute. So in my 20s, needing to make bold fashion statements while being short on actual cash, I discovered credit cards. They looked so pretty in my billfold, all lined up like trendy little soldiers. I made the rounds and acquired fun cards from all sorts of department stores including many that are now extinct: both the Magnin's ("Joe" and "I."). Roos/Atkins. Rhodes. The Emporium. And each store showed us the way to instant gratification with that ultimate bargaining tool: the "revolving" charge account.

Of course I eventually revolved myself into a pretty deep hole, but I recognized the error of my ways in, you know, 25 or so years and cleaned up my act. So I didn't get it when I made a teeny little request the other day and got this negative reaction:

Me: "I love the new dresser we bought for the guestroom, but wouldn't it look nice with different drawer hardware? What do you think about getting new drawer pulls for the dresser?"
Mr. H: "Replacing brand new hardware on a brand new piece of furniture is a total waste of money. You're not thinking logically here, Gale."
Me (huffily): "Well, you know my thinking has never been hampered by logic."

So while this episode demonstrates that my spouse and I are not always on the same page when it comes to money, we're working on it. Why, just the other day I came home after a hard day of stimulating the economy. With my arms filled with bags containing a few new (and absolutely necessary) purchases, he said to me wistfully, "You know, Gale, I wish we had the kind of money you think we have." Hey - that sounds like a great place to start.

Put on your Big Girl Panties

Mar 4, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Yes, I know, the headline is shocking. Just shocking. And that was precisely my reaction, too, when I received a message with the above subject from my e-mail friend, Linda. But before you charge Linda with being an insensitive girl, perhaps I'd better explain.

Linda, who I met long ago but have not seen for years, recently challenged me to a 10-pound weight loss competition. Nothing unusual in that, right? Well, you wouldn't think. However. Visualize a petite little thing like Calista Flockhart, for example, challenging Queen Latifah to a weight loss challenge. Wouldn't you kind of be going, "Huh???"

So when Linda and I re-connected recently via e-mail and she was e-chatting about "comfort zones," and "undies" and the purchase thereof and how she'd like to knock off a few pounds because of, well, said comfort zones, next thing you know I'd signed on to engage in a friendly "Biggest Loser" competition for a cup of skinny coffee a couple of months hence.

Now the thing is, I would venture a guess that Linda doesn't weigh a hundred pounds, sopping wet. On the other hand, I personally could stand to shed some excess tonnage. When you step into my closet you find yourself in a virtual department store containing every sized article of clothing available in the free world. Yo-yo dieting? Think express elevators at the Empire State Building.

Don't get me wrong. I have come to the realization I will never be a Calista Flockhart/Linda type girl and have adjusted to my Queen Latifah/Gale facade. I've never been one of those petite, wraith-like individuals that can wear anything and be a knockout. But I would like to be capable of turning around and walking away without leaving behind (so to speak) a view of what appears to be a couple of feral cats thrashing it out in a gunny sack.

So I took Linda up on her challenge. I wasn't going to quibble about WHY she wanted to acquire an extra micro-millimeter or two of comfort zone. Hey - I know my way around those elastic waistbands, too.

Now the critical thing about getting into a serious weight loss competition is that before doing so you have to "prepare." And you know what that means, people. Yes, in the days prior to entering an acute weight loss program you must consume every speck of epicurean goodness that exists on the planet because God knows you're going to be banished from those yummy foods for practically forever. This is why before engaging in any weight loss program you proceed to the nearest Cheese Cake Factory (or its equivalent) and order pages six through nine of the menu. Never mind that it is humanly impossible to consume every last crumb in one or six sittings, leaving you with enough to-go boxes to feed a couple of third world countries.

So the other day when I got a message from Linda I was totally taken aback when she revealed she had already lost two pounds. What?? I mean, that is so not fair. Due to my mandatory preparation, I had suffered a setback of approximately 2.8 pounds. Yikes!

Therefore, come April when this contest draws to a close, be on the lookout for a couple of weight loss buddies out on the town sipping a cup of skinny joe and yes, one or both of us may be wearing our "big girl panties" but we aren't telling because that's how we, um … roll. Just think of it as Calista enjoying a nice cup of coffee with the Queen.